The Swordsman

The Everwar rages on, beyond the veil of the living, the greatest heroes of ages past stand together against an implacable foe.

They fight not for coin or country, not for kings or causes. They fight, they die for life. Not their own for those have come and gone already. They fight for the living. For those now alive and those who will—or will not—live in the future. They have fought for thousands of years, the exact time is unknown as is the exact number of those who have found oblivion in the effort. But what is known is this—they are losing.

The Everwar rages on... and the end comes. What hope is left lies at the feet of a prince who cares only for dueling—and the accolades such duels give him—and the woman with whom he will spend the night. Not the world’s greatest hope... It’s only one.

The Everwar rages on, the end approaches. Hope flickers like the dying ember of a fire, fading in the darkness. Only one man can fan that spark into a blaze, one that might fight back the shadow. He is a prince. He is a swordsman. And he is the world’s last hope.